


i kissed your lips with the safety off

by otherwords



Series: Coffee Shop AU [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwords/pseuds/otherwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where there was never an attack on New York and the Avengers never had to assemble.</p><p>Tony's 23 and his heart is broken.  Steve's working at a coffee shop to pay the bills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It turns out that an incomplete high school education and dreams of art school don’t get you any further in 2012 than they did in 1941, which is how Steve finds himself behind the counter of Varma’s Coffee, his first civvie job since the war ended seventy years ago.

It has been almost a year since they woke him up. At first, he stayed in the SHIELD headquarters, sleeping in the barracks with the rest of the agents who lived there full-time. But the funding for his bunk dried up when it became apparent that a super-soldier without a war to fight doesn’t do … _anything_. Especially one who needs to eat almost three times as much as the other agents and breaks the gym equipment when he has nightmares.

When Fury came to give him the bad news, he was holding a greasy bag of burgers from a fast food restaurant Steve didn’t recognize. Fury thrust the bag at him and sat down on the flimsy desk chair that matched the rest of the standard-issue room.

Steve looked up from the food, confused, but the look on Fury’s face clarified things.

“I’m sorry, Cap,” said Fury, sighing. “You know I don’t want to do this. We can’t afford to keep you here anymore. ”

Steve was silent. SHIELD was all he had in this century, his closest connection to Peggy and Howard and everything else he had lost.

“I know you’ve noticed what an expensive pet you are,” he said, and it was supposed to be a joke, but it stung Steve like barbed wire across his palms. “You haven’t been eating enough -”

“I’m not -” began Steve, but Fury cut him off.

“I’ve _seen_ you,” he said pointedly. “Big guy like you needs to eat. And needs some space. We can’t give you either of those things here.”

Steve nodded. “I understand.”

Fury pursed his lips, looked Steve over searchingly. “I’m sure you do.” His gaze flicked down, away from Steve’s face. “Get back in the world, Steve. We can help you get started. Help you find a place, at least.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s fine. You’ve done enough. And I appreciate it, I really do.” He set the fast food bag on the bed and picked up his shield from where it leaned against the wall. He headed for the door.

“Cap-”

Steve turned back.

“You’re going to have to leave the shield.”

*

Varma’s is close enough to the university campus that he can count on a shift to trundle along steadily, slinging coffee and chai to caffeine-starved students and the occasional businessperson who stumbles into Varma’s little pocket of warmth.

Steve’s backpay got him the damage deposit and the first two months of rent for his new apartment (and a very expensive memorial for a man who wasn’t actually dead). The place is tiny, barely more than a closet with a bed, but Steve’s spent his whole life poor or in the army, so he doesn’t need much anyway.

Surprisingly, he sleeps better in the new place. SHIELD is an army base – familiar, but uncomfortable. The apartment is more like what little of his childhood home (that word leaves an ache in his chest that won’t fade) he can remember.

His first few months in this century were overcome with anxiety, trying to memorize every detail of his old life, trying to hang onto everything he could remember about what he’d left behind. The sound of Peggy’s voice over the radio, the feel of Bucky’s hand on his shoulder after the funeral, the sharp point of Erskine’s finger in the middle of his chest …

Even the grit of dirt under his skin as he leaped for the grenade, the shocking cold as the plane crumpled around him, the knowledge of his death huge and hollow and pinprick sharp all at once, implicit but irrelevant.

That was funny, wasn’t it? Was anyone else laughing? Steve had _known_ he was a dead man more than once, and yet here he was. He lay awake at night, tracing the cracks in his ceiling, and wondering when his luck would run out. Improbable, impossible Steve Rogers, a captain by 23, a corpse by 24, and an anachronism by 25.

Varma’s is quiet, and it pays the rent, and Steve falls into a routine. A few months into the job, he’s finally saved enough money that he feels he can spend a little on something other than a roof and groceries, so he buys some paint and some charcoal.

You don’t need fancy supplies to draw, as Steve knows well, and he’s got a stack of sketchbooks on his bookshelf in the apartment that prove that, but he’d like to get back into some of the more technical stuff, try and remember who he was before the war. That night, running the fine stick of charcoal over the surface of the page, the lines curling like something familiar – he’s almost finished before he realizes that he’s drawing Peggy.

Her face stares back at him, as crisp as the day he met her, achingly fierce and beautiful and smart. He doesn’t draw anything else with the charcoal for quite a while after that.

When he’s not at work – and he takes every shift he can get his hands on, because working is what he’s used to, what he grew up with, always taking every opportunity to make another dollar because you never know when you might need it – he draws, or he runs, or he reads. He finds a community gym that has punching bags he can practice with, and after he gets a library card, he discovers there is a whole lot of literature you miss if you sleep for seventy years.

That was what SHIELD had done for him, something he couldn’t have done for himself. They gave him papers before he left, a driver’s license and a bank account, all the identification he needs out in the world. _Steven Grant Rogers_ , they read, _born July 4, 1987_ , and wasn’t that a laugh.

Steve could use a laugh. He’s surviving in this new world (it’s the same world, he keeps telling himself, the same one, just – emptier) (and isn’t survival what he does – he’s here, isn’t he? – he’s made it through a war and an ocean and the death of everything he’s ever known, he’s not going to be defeated by a few passed years), but he’s lonely. The other people who work at Varma’s are nice, but he hasn’t really made friends with any of them, can’t figure out how to translate a smile into a conversation into something outside of work.

He tries to draw his coworkers, the customers – the girl with two rings through her eyebrow and a shaved head, the man in the combat boots who caught his eyes and smiled – but every time he picks up a pencil, the only thing that comes out is Peggy’s sharp eyes, or the way Bucky smiled at him sideways, an inside joke.

It goes on like this, and then he gets into his first fight.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but as soon as he throws up his arm to block the first punch, he’s overcome with tightness in his chest, with the sound of bullets ricocheting off metal, men screaming, and his opponent gets in a few good hits before he hears the scared whimper that drew him into this alley in the first place, and he snaps back to it. His form is terrible, but he subdues the attacker – breaks his arm, maybe, _shit_ – though he gets away when he stops to check on the person he was trying to rescue in the first place. He makes sure the guy isn’t too badly hurt, helps him phone the police, waits until he can hear the ambulance, and then leaves before anyone can ask him any questions.

That was a mess. He can practically hear Bucky saying, “You don’t know when to quit, do you?” He thought Howard Stark had ended his days of slinking out of alleys, wiping blood from his mouth.

Thankfully he has the next day off, so he goes for a long run, trying to drown the memories in exhaustion. When he finally has to stop, he’s far from home. He bends over, breathing hard, with his hands propped on his knees.

“Hey,” says a voice over his shoulder, and he turns suddenly, fear renewed. “You okay?”

He goes to reassure the man staring at him with concern in his eyes – “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” – but the words don’t come out, and he just shakes his head.

“I’m Sam,” says the man. He’s wearing a sweat-soaked sweatshirt and has obviously been running too.

“Steve,” he gets out, between pants.

“You’re running hard there, kid. You’ve been here longer than me, and you haven’t slowed down. Mind if I take a look at that cut on your face?”

The distrust must be evident in his eyes, because Sam puts his hands up, a friendly gesture. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve just got a knack for seeing hurt in people. You served, by any chance?”

Steve wants to say no, he really does, but he nods instead.

A sad little smile touches Sam’s lips. “I thought maybe. You run like a soldier. I was in the air force. Did you give yourself that cut, or did someone else?”

Steve shrugs half-heartedly. “I was trying to help …”

Sam puts a warm hand on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to need some yourself.”

And for all Fury and SHIELD ever did for him, they didn’t give him this. He takes a big shaky breath, getting the air back in his lungs. “I might.”

Sam makes him stop running for a bit, drink something. He puts his number in Steve’s crappy SHIELD phone and gives him a card for a veteran’s hospital where he volunteers. “They helped me a lot,” he says, doesn’t push. “I run a support group there. The doors are always open.” 

He asks Steve if he needs a ride anywhere, but Steve says no and waits until he’s out of Sam’s line of sight before he starts running again.

He sleeps deeply that night, for the first time in a long time, too tired for nightmares.

*

One of the effects of the super-soldier serum is that he doesn’t need as much sleep as he used to, but it’s still hard to get up for work the next morning. His split lip has already closed up, and the cut across his cheek is reduced to an angry pink line. He is sore, but not as sore as he should be, considering what he did to his body yesterday. Still, the walk to work takes longer than usual.

It must be about the time that midterms are starting, because Varma’s is extra busy today. Steve smiles at each harried student who orders from him, whether or not they return it, wishes good luck to the ones who look like they really need it, the ones ordering the biggest cup of coffee they sell.

He is wiping the counter after a rush when the door jingles, and he looks up to see Howard Stark step into the store.

Steve stumbles back, knocking a stack of paper coffee cups to the floor, sucks in a heavy breath through his nose.

But, no –

It’s not Howard. It can’t be.

The man in the doorway looks like him, maybe. It might be the glare from the sun through the windows, or the long night Steve had yesterday. Or maybe it’s the way the man’s dark eyes glance around the room, like nothing there is interesting enough to hold his attention.

He shakes his head to clear it, ducks behind the counter to gather up the spilled cups. When he stands up again, the man doesn’t look anything like Howard. Except in the sweep of his dark hair, and the way his eyebrows pull together in disdain as his gaze passes over Steve. He flips his sunglasses down over his eyes even though he’s in the store now and comes halfway to the counter.

Steve smiles nervously.

The man mutters something, flicks his gaze down to his phone. He’s wearing a band shirt (at least, Steve thinks it’s a band), and torn jeans, but expensive-looking dress shoes. His backpack dangles from one shoulder as he taps quickly, almost nervously, on his phone screen, then steps up to the counter. He can’t be any older than Steve; probably a little younger, actually.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice matches his gestures – flitting, anxious – as he flips his sunglasses back up again. “A large black coffee, and two medium” – he waves dismissively at the hand-lettered sign with the month’s specialty drink – “of those. Whatever those are. Actually, make that two large coffees.”

“Both black?” says Steve.

“Yes. I want to study, not enjoy myself.”

Steve punches the order into the till and reads his total. The man hands him a bill and Steve goes to give him the change, but he waves it off.

“Keep it.”

Steve is holding almost forty dollars. He looks up at the man standing opposite of him, which makes him slide his glasses back over his eyes.

“Look, is this a thing? Like a can’t accept a tip thing? Unless your employer has some bullshit policy about this, keep the money and stop looking at me like that. I came here for coffee not to explain the service industry to the new barista.”

“I’m not new,” says Steve, and kicks himself because _that’s_ what he took out of that?

The other man studies him for a second, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “I suppose not,” he says finally. And then, like he’s admitting something, “I haven’t been around for a while.”

Steve puts the change down behind the till and makes the order. He puts the coffees in a cardboard drink tray and slides it across the counter. Before he can stop himself, he says, “Study group?” and he can’t figure out why. He just wants this exchange to last a moment longer, to keep the stranger with Howard’s eyes here another minute.

The man takes the coffee tray, looking distractedly at his phone again. “Huh? The coffee? No. This is for me. Well, one for my driver, maybe. But the rest for me. I’m working.” And he tilts his glasses down, gives Steve one more look, his brown eyes searching and intense.

Steve smiles back.

The man shakes his head and turns.

“Have a nice day,” Steve calls after him, but he doesn’t look back.

Steve watches him disappear out the door, and then puts the absurdly large tip in the tip jar. That night, after he gets off work, he pulls out his phone and texts Sam: _I’m seeing things from my past._

Sam texts back right away: _Want to get coffee sometime and talk about it?_

Steve replies: _Funny you should ask._


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Saturday, so all the students who want to study but don’t want to go to campus fill Varma’s, which is how Steve almost misses the fake Howard. He’s standing in line with another man, about their age, neatly dressed and slightly exasperated looking. When they get closer to Steve, he can hear not-Howard talking quickly and quietly to his friend.

“… uncanny, right? Like a fucking replica.”

“Tony,” says the other man admonishingly, glancing up at Steve, who looks away quickly.

“No, Rhodey, look at him. That _fucking face_. Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”

Rhodey shrugs and purses his lips.

“I’m never wrong,” says not-Howard. Tony.

At that, Rhodey actually laughs. Then they’re next in line and Rhodey’s stepping up to the counter.

Steve smiles at him, the way he smiles at all customers, and slides a glance to Tony.

“Can I get a chai latte and a medium black decaf coffee?” Rhodey orders.

Tony complains immediately. “Decaf, Rhodey? You’re not my real dad. Get me real coffee. Can I take a picture of you?”

It takes Steve a moment to realize that Tony is asking him this. He raises an eyebrow in confusion, but Tony is already pulling out his phone. For half a second, he is reminded again of Howard, in the way Tony moves, tight and controlled, but then he takes the picture and cackles as he starts typing, and the illusion is shattered.

“I’m sending it to Pepper,” he informs Rhodey, not looking up.

Rhodey shakes his head, clearly embarrassed. “I apologize for him. I can’t take him anywhere. I’d blame it on grad school, but most people with PhDs manage to at least pretend to be functioning adults when they’re in public. I’ll just get the latte and he can fend for himself.”

“It’s okay,” says Steve, because being amiable is what he does, and then he escapes to the back counter to make Rhodey’s drink. He can feel eyes on him the whole time, like he’s being studied, but that’s not a new feeling for him. When he comes back to the front counter, Tony is absorbed in his phone. He gives Rhodey his drink and smiles his coffee-shop smile. “Have a good day.”

Tony looks up sharply at this, frowning. He snags Rhodey’s drink from his hands and is out the door before Rhodey can protest. The look of annoyance on Rhodey’s face is almost comical as he chases after Tony.

Steve watches them go and then turns a slightly sheepish grin on the next customer in line. The rest of his shift crawls by with him unable to shake the feel of that dark-eyed gaze on the back of his neck. It makes him flushed and irritated, and he can’t sit still once he gets home.

He pulls out his sketchbook and flips to the first empty page, starts doodling restlessly. After a few minutes, he throws his sketchbook down and goes to the bookshelf. When he left SHIELD, Fury had given him a few pictures and books that had survived the intervening years. Tucked into one of the books is an old photo of him, standing in front of the Project Rebirth equipment with Howard on one side and Erskine on the other. It’s a good picture, all of them bright-eyed and excited for the coming procedure. Howard’s face jumps out, all his energy focused laser-sharp into this moment, his arm slung loosely around Steve’s shoulders. Erskine’s features are gentler, one hand resting warmly on Steve’s other shoulder as he smiles for the photographer. Steve, in the middle, is skinny and tired, his thin chest hollow, but his gaze is steady, and Steve marvels at how much he hasn’t changed for all that has.

He takes the picture back to the couch and props it up on the cushion beside himself. He starts drawing Howard’s face, his dark eyes that Steve had once thought to be so singular. He finishes Howard’s portrait and starts a new face, right beside the first. Another set of dark eyes, thick hair messy and unkempt.

It’s unsettling, staring at the finished drawings. They look like brothers, like someone took Howard’s face and updated it for this new world. A strange little tingle chases itself down Steve’s spine, and he tucks the photo into the sketchbook and snaps it shut. He goes for another long run, trying to dispatch the nervous energy that has gathered in his stomach, and falls asleep hours later, dreaming about the pain of the Project Rebirth transformation.

*

The manager of Varma’s has taught him how to close the shop, and he often works the closing shift now, since he’s one of the few employees without a family to go home to. Steve doesn’t mind. He likes the city at night, enjoys running home under the glow of streetlights. He takes a longer route, to avoid the busy streets with neon signs, and with the cover of darkness, he can pretend the city belongs to the same time as he does.

Working until close means he starts later in the day, and he walks to work in the early afternoon. He went to the gym this morning, finished one of his library books and started another. He still feels bored and restless. He wonders what it was like for the rest of the Howling Commandos to go back to real life after the war. Was it better for them, because they still had each other, still had sisters and nephews and favourite restaurants to go back to? Or was it worse, because they weren’t the same people anymore, but they were surrounded by people who expected them to return unchanged?

He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair in front of the mirror in the back of Varma’s and takes in his reflection. He looks identical to the picture in his apartment, and he wonders – not for the first time – what the point of all this was? It doesn’t feel like he made a damn difference.

He washes his hands and clocks in, nods to Cass, who’s already on shift. He’s sad and he’s tense, and when he sees Tony in line with a red-haired young woman, he’s _angry_ , because he was doing fine in this new century, he was getting by and he was adapting, but then Tony showed up with Howard’s eyes and his unreadable gaze and stirred up all the mud at the bottom of Steve’s mind. He’s planning on making Cass take Tony’s order, but the store has emptied out and she goes on break and Steve has no choice but to deal with Tony and his friend.

Tony is wearing the same shirt as the first time Steve saw him, looks rumpled and sleepless. His friend is sharp and lovely, coloured in shades of peach and lace. She orders for the two of them, and Steve is pleasant, bland.

Tony watches him intently the whole time and then quickly pays while the girl digs in her bag for her wallet.

“I told you, Pepper, didn’t I?” says Tony, while Steve counts change.

“Tony, shut up,” says Pepper.

“You look familiar,” says Tony, still staring.

“I’m not,” says Steve, and he can feel an angry flush staining his cheeks.

Tony raises one eyebrow slowly, and the grin that spreads across his face is knowing and needling, like he takes pleasure in getting a rise out of Steve.

Pepper crosses her arms. “Tony, I said shut up. Leave the man alone before he spits in your drink.” She looks up at Steve, “I give you full permission to spit in his drink. If you don’t, I probably will, so take that into consideration.”

Tony laughs. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Pepper.”

“I am on your side, Tony. I’m attempting to make you a better person.”

Steve leaves them to bicker comfortably and make their drinks. He spills coffee on his hand trying to finish quickly, and winces, holding his fingers to his chest for a moment before bringing the drinks to the counter.

“Did you need a tray?” he asks, professional and blank.

Tony looks worried for half a moment, glances at Steve’s burned fingers.

“No, thank you,” says Pepper, taking her latte. She smiles at Steve and turns to go. Tony picks up his own drink and opens his mouth to say something, but he snaps it shut again a second later and follows Pepper out of the store.

Steve expects Tony to be back the next day with someone new to gawk at him, but his next shift is peacefully uneventful. He makes a coffee date with Sam for his next day off, and he doesn’t see Tony again in between.

He meets Sam at a coffee place that’s bigger than Varma’s, but less friendly. Sam insists on paying, and Steve lets him. They sit in a corner booth, and Sam is quiet until Steve feels like talking.

“I keep seeing someone who reminds me of someone I used to know … someone I lost,” he says.

Sam nods sympathetically, and it’s a long moment before Steve continues.

“I lost everyone,” he says. “Everyone I knew. Everyone I – loved. I wish they were here, but more than that, I wish I was still with them. And I hate this person, because they remind me so much of H–my friend. I hate this whole damn place–” and he cuts himself off, because there’s no way he can tell Sam about the extent of what he’s really lost.

Sam fiddles with the handle of his cup. “It’s important that you realize that you don’t have to earn your place here,” he says. “A lot of people come back, they think they have to justify why they were special enough to make it through. You don’t have to. You’re here, and that’s enough of an explanation. You understand me?”

Steve shrugs.

“Hey,” says Sam sharply. “Don’t start thinking that way.”

“Yeah,” says Steve.

“If you feel down, you call me, okay? I really think you should come by the group sometime. It could help you.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Steve, and he smiles reassuringly, because reassuring has always been a look he can pull off.

Sam nods. “You do that.”

*

Tony doesn’t come back. A week passes, and then another. The rent at Steve’s place goes up, and all of a sudden he’s barely making enough to pay for it. He tries to paint, to read, but the only thing that takes his mind off of things is running until he can’t breathe. The community gym is now an expense he can’t justify, and he feels too tightly wound.

Of course, that’s when Tony chooses to make his next appearance. It’s late, an hour or two before closing. The shop is nearly empty, and Steve is cleaning the back counters.

Tony comes in, and Steve is instantly on guard, but he relaxes when he gets a better look at the other man. He’s walking gingerly, like he’s hurt something important, and he probably has, judging by the faint bruising on his face. Steve’s been in enough fights to know what the aftermath looks like.

“Large coffee. Black,” says Tony, and he looks like he wants to hide behind something. He fidgets with the strap of his backpack, let’s his hand drift to the outline of his phone in his pocket. He pays with a bill that more than covers his total, and then stuffs the change into the tip jar, quirking an eyebrow as is to dare Steve to say something.

Steve pours him his coffee and sets it on the counter silently.

Tony takes it and turns to go, but then turns back. “Not even a good night?”

“Good night,” says Steve, but Steve can tell from his eyes that this wasn’t what Tony wanted. Tony goes to sit near the window, pulling out a laptop. His coffee sits untouched on the table beside him as he gets absorbed in whatever he’s working on (Steve gets a glimpse of the screen while he’s sweeping, but it’s all complicated code, and he can’t make anything out of it).

Varma’s is almost closed, and Tony is still there, hunched over his laptop. Steve sighs and pours the last of the hot coffee into a paper cup. He takes it to Tony’s table and sets it down. “We’re closing. You need to leave.”

Tony blinks up at him like it’s a great effort to drag his attention away from his laptop. “Oh … yeah. What’s this?”

“Coffee,” says Steve.

“Huh?” says Tony. “Oh! Coffee. Good.”

Steve shakes his head, and then it comes out, there it is, the thing he didn’t mean to say. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Tony’s eyes widen a little. “Yeah, yeah, ‘m fine. Just–” he gestures at his laptop “–working. I get distracted, you know?”

Steve shrugs curtly. “Sure.” He turns to head back to the front counter.

“I’m sorry–” calls Tony after him.

This is too much. He can’t deal with confusing boys with dark eyes and bruised faces apologizing to him for things he barely understands.

“–if I made you uncomfortable before. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s fine,” says Steve. “Now you really have to go, because we’re closing.”

“Okay,” says Tony, and he packs up his laptop, wraps his hands around the new coffee that Steve brought him. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure. If I’m ever going to finish my thesis, I need coffee.” He laughs quietly. “My name is Tony, by the way.”

What is he _doing_? It’s all Steve can do not to drop his head to the counter and groan. Instead, he turns around and holds the door open for Tony, so he can lock it behind him.

“You’re supposed to introduce yourself back,” says Tony, stepping outside, but not far enough that Steve can close the door.

“Steve,” he says.

Tony’s eyes go wide, and he almost drops his coffee. “Really? Because that’s hilarious. I wish I could explain to you why that is hilarious. My dad–” And then his face goes dark, and he trails off. “Goodnight, Steve,” he says, and disappears down the street.

Steve locks the door and sighs heavily. What the hell was that? He finishes closing the restaurant and runs home. It’s a long while before he can fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

There is no sign of Tony at work the next day, and Steve pushes the twinge of disappointment to the back of his mind (because that’s _stupid_ , isn’t it?) and tries to lose himself in busywork. When his shift is finally over, he pushes through the glass doors of Varma’s into the early evening. The air is autumn-cool and Steve takes a deep breath, trying to relax. He starts walking in the direction of his apartment, mentally cataloguing the contents of his kitchen cupboards to pull together dinner.

“Hey!” someone calls behind him, and he turns to see Tony jogging towards him, carrying a paper bag. “Hey,” says Tony again, catching up and slowing to a walk, so that Steve has to keep moving to stay beside him. “I brought you dinner.”

“What?” says Steve, and he can hear the suspicion in his voice. “Why?”

“To thank you for the coffee last night,” says Tony, opening the bag and handing Steve a cheeseburger. He unwraps one himself and takes an unceremonious bite, wiping ketchup from his chin. Steve opens his cheeseburger warily, and Tony rolls his eyes. “You think I put the effort into buying you a shitty dinner so I could poison you in the streets?”

“No,” says Steve defensively, and he takes a bite, surprised by how good it is.

Tony has already finished his first burger. He pulls out two more and shoves one at Steve before unwrapping his own.

“I would’ve had to dump that coffee out anyway,” says Steve. “You don’t … owe me, or anything.”

Tony shrugs. “Sure. You want fries?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just grabs the empty cheeseburger wrapper from Steve’s hand and replaces it with a carton of wilting fries, stealing a few in the process.

“Thank you,” says Steve.

Tony looks at him sideways, and Steve swears he catches the hint of smile before Tony opens his mouth and starts talking in a steady stream. “I needed a break from my goddamn thesis. Like, holy shit, how long can a man stare at somebody else’s broken fucked up code before he goes fucking insane? Not long, I can guaran-fucking-tee you. Maybe I should scrap the whole thing and write my thesis on that. Can you imagine the defence?” He grins wickedly and takes Steve’s garbage, crumpling up the bag and tossing it into the next garbage can they pass. “Anyway, you looked like you could use a hot meal – or whatever the expression is; Pepper used to say it when I worked on JARVIS for too long – JARVIS is another story, remind me – so I thought I should do something about that. I am capable of feeding myself sometimes, so you’ll have to tell Pepper about this so she believes me. I haven’t seen her in a bit – she’s so busy these days, which means she’s not paying nearly enough attention to me …” He trails off and they walk in silence for a bit.

“This is nice,” says Tony absently, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s talking about the evening or walking with him, but either way he agrees and feels a little warm at the thought. _Stupid_ , he reminds himself.

“Hey, give me your phone,” says Tony. “I’m going to put my number in it.”

Steve pulls out his SHIELD-issue phone and starts to hand it to Tony, but Tony visibly recoils and sneers in disgust. “What _is_ that? How old is it? It’s horrible; I refuse to touch it.” He pulls out his own phone, navigates to a new contact, and hands it to Steve. “Put your number in.”

Steve takes the phone, marvelling at how compact and sleek it is, and starts to type in the number for the SHIELD phone. As he’s typing, he notices the logo stamped in silver at the top of the screen: _Stark Industries_. He feels a rush of warm nostalgia. “Stark Industries is still around?” he says, smiling at the tiny letters.

“Aha!” cries Tony. “You _do_ know who I am! I was starting to wonder. And you’re hilarious, by the way. Really fucking funny. I’ve never heard that before. Yeah, the stocks dipped a little after my 'rash' announcement, so what, happens to everyone. Of course we’re still around.” He leans towards Steve, grinning wolfishly. “We’re better than ever.”

Something clicks in Steve’s head – something that maybe should have clicked a long time ago – and his fingers feel numb. “Tony … Stark?” he says.

“That’s the rumour,” Tony says, flashing that sharp smile. “Now hurry up and give me my phone back. It makes me anxious when I’m not holding her.”

Steve holds out the phone. His throat feels suddenly dry and he’s having trouble getting in a full breath. _Tony Stark_. He’s – what? Howard’s nephew? His _son_?

“You okay there? You’ve gone a little–” Tony waves a hand vaguely to demonstrate what Steve has gone. The grin has dropped off of his face. He looks confused now, and a little hurt. He takes his phone back and glances at the screen, like there might be something there than can explain Steve’s sudden incoherence.

“Yeah – yeah, uh, I’m fine. I just – I have to go,” says Steve, stepping back from Tony and almost stumbling. “I’m sorry.” He turns and breaks into a run. He doesn’t have a computer in his apartment, so he needs to get to the library before it closes.

When he pushes into the library’s lobby, his breathing is loud and ragged against the heavy silence. He struggles to pull in a few deep breaths so he can go find a computer without disturbing anyone. When he finds a free one, he punches his library card number in to authenticate it and opens a new internet window. His fingers are unsteady on the keys as he types Tony's name.

Tony’s face pops up instantly, along with millions of results. The top links are news articles: one about the hit to the company’s stocks that Tony had mentioned and one that Steve doesn’t understand. _Billionaire found after 3 months in captivity._

Steve opens the second link and scrolls through the article, horrified. That date at the top of the page indicates that it’s three years old, which means Tony can barely have been more than a teenage when this happened to him …

Steve feels sick. He goes back to the list of results and finds one that links to a short biography.

_Anthony “Tony” Stark, the only son of Stark Industries founder Howard Stark and socialite Maria Carbonell Stark, grew up in New York high society before attending an elite boarding school for gifted students. He was accepted to MIT when he was only 15 and completed a bachelor’s degree in mathematics and physics in two years. Just before his graduation, Howard and Maria were killed in a car accident. Tony took on a bigger role in his father’s company while getting a PhD in computer science and artificial intelligence. He then took over the role of CEO of Stark Industries at 21. Tony brought the company into a new era of productivity and innovation before being kidnapped and held hostage for three months by the terrorist organization the Ten Rings. Upon his return, he announced the cessation of weapons manufacturing at Stark Industries, causing the largest stock price drop in the company’s history. Through Tony’s focus on clean energy and medical technology, Stark Industries has staged an impressive comeback._

The rest of the page is filled with photos of products from Stark Industries, but Steve can barely see them. It’s hard to breath. Anthony “Tony” Stark, Howard’s son.

Why hadn’t anyone told him that Howard had a son nearly his age? What else hadn’t they told him? He searches Bucky’s name, gets a few results about the Howling Commandos, looks up Peggy and doesn’t find anything he didn’t already know: instrumental in forming SHELD, died unmarried with no children a few years before Steve woke up. He searches other names from his past, but nothing new, nothing like this.

He scrolls through the results. There is so much information about Tony available, but it feels invasive to be sifting through it like this. He goes to close the page when one more picture catches his eye. It’s a family photo. Howard is years older than when Steve knew him, grey edging his dark hair and his moustache, but his eyes still sharp and focused. Maria is much younger than Howard, statuesque and distant. Tony is between the two of them, barely 16, gazing into the camera with his father’s dark eyes. None of them look happy.

Steve signs out of the computer, suddenly unable to stay in the library for another moment. The dim silence is cloying and all the frantic energy has drained out of him. He starts walking in the direction of his apartment, feeling very far away from the street around him.

He had known that Howard was dead, had even known the he had been killed in a car accident. When Steve woke up, they had briefed him on the fates of the people from his past life. It was conceivable that some of them had survived the intervening years, but none had. How alone he had felt with the knowledge of their deaths.

But nobody had mentioned that Howard had a son.

He climb the stairs to his apartment and unlocks the door. As soon as he steps inside, he knows he's not alone.

"Hello, Cap," say Fury, from where he's sitting on Steve's beat-up couch.

"What the hell are you doing here?" says Steve, fighting to keep the anger out of his voice.

"You didn't think we'd abandon you completely, did you?" says Fury. There is mock pain in his voice, as if Steve is the one who betrayed him.

"You've been - what? Watching me?" Another thing he should have guessed.

"Something like that," says Fury, standing up to facing Steve.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

Fury raises one amused eyebrow. "I need to talk to you, Cap."

"I think you lost that right a few months ago," says Steve coldly, and he can almost see surprise in Fury's eyes that Steve isn't being cooperative. Something bitter and vindictive twists in his stomach. People always seem to forget that he didn't become Captain America by following the rules.

"You need to stay away from him," says Fury, and Steve doesn't bother to pretend he doesn't know who he's talking about.

"Why should I?" He hates how petulant he sounds.

"I do not trust Tony Stark with certain information," says Fury. "Some of it relevant to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" says Steve, to hide his confusion. As much as he would like to defend this boy who brought him dinner and made fun of his phone, no matter how much information his search results pulled up an hour ago, he realizes he doesn't know anything about him.

Fury shakes his head once. "I'm not sure I trust that information with _you_."

"Why didn't you tell me about him?" says Steve, and there it is again, that desperate edge to his voice.

"To avoid this," says Fury, and his voice is blunt. "Whoever Howard was to you, he was not the same person for Tony. You're only going to hurt him."

"And since when do you care about things like that?" challenges Steve.

Fury ignores this and steps past him to the door. "Stay away from him, Captain. That's an order."

*

It took almost all of his energy not to do something stupid like punch through a wall after Fury left. He ended up running around the city for most of the evening, looking for a fight. He found a few, and when he couldn't find more, he ran until his feet bled and then he realized he had done something stupid after all.

Standing behind the counter at Varma's the next day, the full force of his stupidity hits him in waves of tiredness and pain. He's down a pair of shoes and he's _hungry_ like his stomach has been scraped out of his body. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He tries his best to smile at every customer, but he makes dumb mistakes, punches orders wrong and spills vanilla syrup all over the back counter. When he's finally off, he nods goodbye to his coworkers and drags himself down the street in the direction of his apartment.

It takes him a few blocks to realize that a black limo is tailing him. He's instantly on guard, instincts pushing the exhaustion and pain to the back of his mind.

The limo slows to a stop and the door opens. Steve braces himself, ready to run.

Tony gets out. He's wearing a rumpled suit, tie dangling haphazardly from his neck. There's a leather bag slung over his shoulder, leaking papers, and he's got a flat cardboard box with a paper bag balanced on it in his arms.

Steve relaxes a little, and all the hurt comes flooding back in. The limo pulls away from the curb and disappears down the street.

"Hey," says Tony flatly. He catches up to Steve and thrusts the paper bag at him. "Usually I don't take it so well when someone runs out in the middle of dinner, but you look like fucking shit, and god knows I've been there before."

"Were you ... following me?" asks Steve weakly. He holds up the bag in his arms, and realizes it's takeout.

Tony gives him a disapproving look but doesn't answer, flipping the lid of the box he's carrying open. Inside are a dozen doughnuts, iced and powdered and chocolate-coated. Tony stuffs a jam-filled one into his mouth and hands Steve a Boston crème. "Eat it, dummy," he says around the doughnut. "You look like death."

Steve takes it gratefully and almost swallows it whole.

"Jesus," says Tony, taking his own doughnut out of his mouth to talk. Jam drips to the pavement and he licks some from his fingers. "Take the fucking box. We can find somewhere to sit for the rest of it. I have been in meetings all day and if I don't get some goddamn booze soon I will torch the fucking tower." He gives Steve another appraising look. "Food first, though."

Steve shoves another doughnut into his mouth, but tries to do it politely. He follows Tony into a little green space, where he finds an empty bench and sits down, gesturing for Steve to follow suite. He hands him a container of takeout and a plastic fork.

"What the fuck did you do to yourself?" asks Tony, shovelling noodles into his mouth with chopsticks.

Steve shrugs. Now that he's looking at Tony head-on, he can see new bruises around one of Tony's eyes, partially hidden behind a clever makeup job. A scratch sneaks out of his shirtsleeve onto the back of his hand. "I went for a run."

Tony snorts in laughter. "Dude, drink your fucking electrolytes. No one looks that trashed after a run."

"What did you do to yourself?" asks Steve, gesturing at the bruises.

Tony stiffens instantly, concentrates on his food. "Not a goddamn thing," he says.

Steve decides to push it. "No one looks that beat-up after nothing," he says. "I've been in enough fights to know."

Tony looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. "I was testing something. It went poorly. That's what happens when you test shit. You can drop it right fucking now or I will take the food back and let you starve on this bench like the pathetic stray puppy you are."

"I'm not a stray puppy," he says, the phrase bringing back Fury's words from all that time ago: _I'm sure you've noticed what an expensive pet you are._

"Please," says Tony, rolling his eyes, "you're the most adorable thing this side of that live feed of cats Pepper is obsessed with," and he pelts Steve with a handful of mints from the takeout bag to prevent him from responding. He smiles, though, so that's alright.

Steve opens one of the mints and fiddles with the wrapper. "What are you going to school for?"

Tony sets aside his takeout carton, runs a hand through his already messy hair. "Manned flight, mostly."

"Airplanes?"

"No, more specialized. It kind of builds off my first PhD ..."

"Wow," says Steve, and the awe in his voice is real, "you seem really young for two PhDs."

Tony grins. "I'm a genius. Actually."

"Were your parents proud?"

Tony's face goes dark for a second and then he’s laughing, but the sound is brittle. “I could have got myself to the fucking moon with a paperclip and a nine volt and my old man wouldn’t have been proud of me.” He stands suddenly. “I’m going to the bar. You coming?”

Alcohol hasn’t affected Steve since the serum. He shakes his head.

“Okay, well,” Tony looks lost for a moment, shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “The leftovers are for you. Get home safely. Goodnight.”

And then he turns and walks into the falling darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

He owes Tony an apology. That's why he does it.

He's working a rare morning shift, so it's early afternoon when he gets off. Sunshine streams in through the shop windows and Steve feels light-headed as he makes two of the month's speciality drink - it involves a lot of hazelnut syrup and foam - and then heads out onto the bright street. He knows the way to the university, even though he's never been, and he walks quickly, clutching the tray of coffee to his chest.

When he gets to campus and sees the size of it, he realizes he has probably made a mistake.

He wanders between buildings and grassy spaces until he finally finds a campus map, sun-faded and water-spotted, and tries to decipher the legend of building names, his fingers too tight on the coffee tray. He picks a building that seems promising (Artificial Intelligence Laboratory - Tony had mentioned his first PhD was in artificial intelligence) and heads in that direction.

Students stream around him, shouldering backpacks and chatting with each other. He gets a few interested looks, but for the most part, people ignore him. A young guy with a tray of coffee isn't an unlikely sight on a university campus. Steve feels a twinge of regret, or jealousy maybe. Waking up had seemed like a second chance and yet here he is, still unable to afford anything he had wanted in his old life.

He finds the building that houses the AI lab and goes inside, wanders through brick hallways until he finds a main office. He hovers tentatively in front of the plastic window the separates the foyer from the office.

It takes the woman at the front desk a moment to notice him. "Can I help you?" she asks, looking away from her computer screen.

He holds the tray of coffee tighter. "Sorry. I've never been on campus before, and I'm pretty lost. I'm trying to visit someone."

The woman smiles at him. "Big campus, huh? It took me years to figure it all out. Where are you trying to get to?"

"I'm not exactly sure ... I'm here to visit a -" he hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out what Tony is to him "- a friend. He's a PhD student."

"What's his name?" she asks. "I can look up his office number."

"Tony Stark."

The woman frowns, her gaze going cold. "You think you're the first person to try that? What a hilarious waste of my time." She turns her attention back to her computer.

Steve feels stupid instantly. Of course people come looking for Tony all the time. He's a celebrity. He must get hordes of admiring fans trying to track down his office number and corner him. Why would Steve be any different?

"It's not like that," says Steve. "I - he visits me at work. I brought him coffee."

The woman looks up at him again, her eyebrow raised. "A lot of people bring Tony Stark a lot of things, and it's never 'like that'. I'm not going to tell you his office number."

Disappointment crashes into Steve, and he takes a step back. "I'm sorry to have bothered you," he says, hesitates another moment. "Do you want a coffee?"

"Please leave," says the woman.

Steve backtracks out of the building, his face burning. It had been so _stupid_ to assume he could just go find Tony like that. Who did he think Tony was? A friend who visited him at work and brought him dinner? No, Tony was someone who climbed out of a limo with enough food to last two days in _Steve's_ fridge, who was getting his second doctorate before the age of 25. Tony was special, brilliant, rich, famous - and Steve doesn't know him at all.

He walks home with his rapidly cooling coffee, drinks them both because he isn't in the position to be wasting calories.

To be honest, that's something that is beginning to worry him.

Steve grew up poor during the Depression. He knows what it's like to be hungry. The serum made him big, gave him muscle and height, amplified everything about him. He went in hungry and he came out hungry. It was easier to push the feeling to the back of his mind, after. It didn't drag him down the way it used to. But a body that burned with that kind of strength needed to be fed.

They tried, during the war. When he was on the stage every night, they had brought in huge meals for him and he had gorged himself, for the first time in his life. But then he went to the front and there hadn't been enough food for anyone, let alone Steve, and the hunger had come back. Being hungry was just a fact, the same way you knew you were going to be cold and you know you were going to be afraid.

So he had gone under hungry and he woke up hungry. For the first few weeks in his new life, they had kept up with him. But then funding got thin and so did Steve.

Looking in the mirror now, it's like his new body is melting away around his old one, and it feels like homesickness. He's still tall, but he is much thinner, his muscles mass fading away.

He's just so _tired_.

*

Routine claims him. Work, home, work, repeat. Paycheck in, rent out. What's left to groceries. A week passes, maybe more, with no sign of Tony. Days blur into on-shift and off-shift and travelling between.

Steve is locking up one night when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He whips around, sliding the keys between his fingers, the little guy in him still expecting a fight – and sees Tony, standing there uncomfortably.

Tony is wearing a neat navy suit with thin lapels and an even thinner black tie. His hair is combed back from his face – Howard flashes into Steve's brain - and he is shifting his weight between his feet. “Hi,” he says, and he sounds a little bit out of breath.

“Hi,” says Steve, and it feels inadequate. He slips his keys into his pocket.

“Are you busy?” asks Tony. “You probably are. I should have known that, but – ha, yeah, this was a dumb idea. I just thought – I don't know what I thought. There's quantifiable evidence I'm a smart human being – they had me tested – but I didn't really think this one through. Seems to be a recurring problem, if I'm being honest.”

“What?” says Steve, because this isn't making a lot of sense. “Do you need something?”

“Do _I_ need something? Now there's a question. I need a lot of things, the least of which is another degree, but here we are. What I wanted was dinner, but that was maybe silly anyway.”

It takes a moment for Steve to decipher Tony's words, and Tony ducks his head and starts fiddling with the edge of his jacket. “I'm free right now, if you want to get something to eat,” says Steve finally. He thinks of his dwindling bank account and cringes a little, because he can't really afford to do this, but the way Tony looks up and grins brilliantly sends a warm flush rolling through his chest.

“Great,” says Tony, “because you look like you could use a meal or six, and if I have to stare at my thesis for any longer, I'll go insane.” He's already turning and heading down the street, his confidence restored now that he's in charge again. “Come on,” he says, looking back over his shoulder, “I know a place.”

Steve trails after him, running a hand through his hair. He smells like dishwater and chai, and he's sweaty from mopping. Strange nostalgia rockets through him: he's been here before, following a dark-haired boy down the street to adventures unknown. The feeling is like a physical blow, brings a mixture of sadness and guilt and excitement swirling up the back of his throat. He swallows hard and hurries to catch up to Tony.

“The simulators aren't working again,” Tony says, when Steve matches his pace. “I swear, I should write my thesis on them, I've fixed them so many times. I keep thinking I should just rewrite them, but do you know how long that would take, even for me? I want to get this thing over with and get back to my company where I can afford some decent fucking equipment. You know what? Maybe I should just buy the university a new one ...”

Tony keeps walking and Steve trails along in his brilliant wake, letting Tony's stream-of-consciousness banter spill over him. It's a few blocks before Tony even seems to stop to take a breath.

“We're almost there. Are you hungry?”

Steve nods.

“Good. This place has the best fucking pizza in the city. If I'm wrong – and I'm never wrong – you tell me what place has better pizza and we will go there and I will try it in front of you so I can personally confirm that you're wrong.”

Steve laughs, and Tony grins at him. His eyes are so bright that he eclipses Steve's memory of Howard, makes the other man seem as faded as Steve's photographs of him.

Tony leads Steve into a tiny hole-in-the-wall pizza restaurant. The walls and tables are heavily graffitied, and the front counter is bordered in corrugated metal. Tony, in his suit and tie, is incongruous in this setting, and it makes Steve's chest feel unpleasantly tight.

“What do you like?” asks Tony, and Steve is lost for a moment. “Pizza?” prompts Tony.

“Oh, uh – anything is fine.”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Perfect. Sit down and I'll order.”

There's no one else in the restaurant, so Steve chooses one of the dented tables by the wall. Tony joins him a moment later with two cans of coke, slides one across to Steve.

“Pizza will be up in a few. I can't wait for you to try it. I love hearing how right I am. It might be my defining character trait, next to always being right.”

The grin on Tony's face is so sharp that Steve's face hurts and he has to look away.

“I was at a conference last week. I meant to bring you pizza before I left but I got distracted. Almost missed the flight. I thought Rhodey was gonna kill me. So this is make-up pizza, I guess.” He tilts his head to the side and examines Steve closely.

Steve's face flushes under Tony's gaze. He holds his pop can tighter, can feel the metal start to bend under his fingers.

“Easy there,” say Tony, and reaches out a hand to take the drink away from Steve. He realizes what he's doing and jerks his hand back. Steve lets the can go and the whole world rushes away for a moment and then the pizza is ready and Tony's standing up to get it and everything makes sense again.

Tony brings back a giant pizza on a blackened tray. He slides it into the middle of the table with a flourish. “Eat it and weep.”

Steve waits for Tony to take a slice before he reaches for one. The pizza is scalding and messy but so good (Tony is right).

Tony shoves his piece into his mouth and starts talking around it. He blasts through everything there is to be said about pizza with no sign of stopping, moves on to other local restaurants Steve should try -“Wait, are you from around here?”; Steve shakes his head and Tony continues – and then launches into an explanation about why the opening keynote at the conference was full of shit. He doesn't notice Steve carefully eat half the pizza and then stop until he's moved on to discussing (again) how much he hates the simulators. He stops suddenly and squints at Steve, like he's trying to figure something out. “Eat more pizza,” he says, shoving the tray at him.

“I already ate half.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You're like – what? A foot taller than me? Eat more pizza.” He watches Steve closely as he picks up another piece of the now-cold pizza.

“Good. Anyway. What was I saying?”

“The simulators,” says Steve.

“Fuck them. How long have you worked at Varma's?”

Steve blinks at the hairpin turn. “Um. A while.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Informative. I used to go there a lot. I don't remember you. And I would remember you.”

Steve flushes. “I haven't lived here that long, I guess.”

“I know _that_ from the thoroughly exhaustive background check I did on you.”

All the pizza in Steve's stomach shifts uncomfortably. His SHIELD-issued history should withstand a run of the mill background check, but Tony is anything but run of the mill.

“Hey, it's not that bad. You've got the most boring background I've ever seen, _Rogers._ Besides that name. Your parents big Cap fans?”

“I, uh – what -” chokes Steve.

“You know, Captain America? You even look like him, in the right light. I had the posters when I was kid. Everybody did. No shame in admitting your parents were nuts for Cap. Mine certainly were.”

There is a dark note in Tony's tone now, but Steve is panicking too much to analyze it. “Just, uh – coincidence,” he manages.

“Yeah, sure. You won't be able to hide your secret Cap fetish from me forever,” says Tony, and then the bell at the front counter dings again and Tony gets up. He comes back with three already-greasy boxes of pizza. “Rhodey would kill me if I didn't bring him back some, after the whole flight thing,” he explains.

“Oh,” says Steve, because he had thought distantly that this was maybe something more than just pizza, but of course Tony is dating Rhodey. It makes sense.

“You okay?” asks Tony.

“Yeah!” says Steve, and it's too bright. “Just ... not feeling that well, actually. I think I should go home.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. That's good,” says Tony, and his voice is pinched for just a moment. He grabs the pizza boxes back up and they walk outside. “You want a ride?”

“I'll just walk,” says Steve.

“Sure,” says Tony, and he thrusts two of the pizzas at Steve. “These are for you. Don't complain, just take them. It's just as good left over.”

“Thank you,” says Steve, because he doesn't really know what else he can say.

“Anytime,” says Tony, and he sounds so genuine that Steve almost believes he means it.

“Good night,” he says and starts walking.

“I told you it was good, didn't I?” shouts Tony after him. “I'm always right.”

Steve turns back to wave, but Tony is already climbing into his limo.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It becomes a thing between them, or a maybe thing. Some days when Steve gets off work, Tony is there waiting for him, dragging him off to one tiny restaurant or another within walking distance of Varma's. He always pays for dinner, and he always forces a ridiculous amount of takeout on Steve when they leave, and he always offers him a ride. Steve takes the food awkwardly and mumbles that he'll just walk, and Tony says "Okay" and gets into the limo that appears out of nowhere without a glance back at Steve.

Some days Tony isn't there, and Steve walks home slowly, hoping to be ambushed, but he always makes it home uninterrupted. He climbs the stairs to his floor and unlocks his apartment, checking for signs of entry (not that Fury would be likely to leave those), and goes inside. He heats up leftovers from Tony, eats them over rice or pasta to make them last longer, and it hits him one day while he's spooning Tony's favourite lentil curry into his mouth and pouring over a book of microcontroller schematics from the library (it would be nice to understand something Tony talks about every once in a while, and the drafter in Steve can appreciate the fine lines and precise details of the drawings) that this is the happiest he has been since he woke up.

The thought sticks with him into the next day, and the one after. He's walking home from closing the shop when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, expecting a message from Sam. He doesn't recognize the number, but he can tell who it's from anyway.

_Late nights in the lab make me want pizza. You up for it?_

He had given Tony his number back when he had first figured out who Tony was, but Tony had never texted him. Steve wasn't too surprised, since the exchange had ended with him running away, but he had been hopeful.

 _Yeah_ , he responds, before he can overthink things.

Tony responds instantly: _I'll meet you at that place. You know the one?_

Steve doesn't, but before he can say so, he gets another text.

_The one we went to before. The one Rhodey likes._

Steve stares at the screen for a moment, a sharp reminder that this isn't anything more than a friendly invitation. But he isn't going to pass up an opportunity to see Tony.  _I'll meet you there_ , he responds, and changes course for the restaurant.

Tony's already there when Steve arrives. There's pizza on the table and two beers.

"I thought you were gonna stand me up," says Tony, putting one of the bottles in front of Steve. "Took you forever to get here."

"I came straight from work," he protests.

"So did I," grins Tony, taking a sip of his beer. He's got little burns dotting his hands, and he's wearing a ratty thermal pullover under a threadbare shirt that says Bruce Springsteen across the front in faded lettering.

Steve can't help but grin back. Tony's smile is infectious, wide and calculating, like he knows exactly how it makes Steve's stomach flop over. He supposes everyone must feel this way around the great Tony Stark.

Tony tilts his head consideringly and stares at Steve for another long moment. "How was work?" he finally asks, breaking the silence and starting to eat.

"Fine," says Steve. Two customers had yelled at him for things that weren't his fault, but he doesn't really want to talk about that. "How was yours?"

Tony wipes tomato sauce off his face with the back of his hand, says, "Oh, god, it was terrible," and launches into a story about the simulators again. He's never explained what they simulate, but his irrational anger over them has Steve laughing over his pizza.

"So I said, 'Fuck me if I have to be in the same room as this piece of shit for another minute!' and Linta -- that's one of my lab partners; she's brilliant but she's patient, which I am not, so she hates me -- said, 'Tony, if you give it a goddamn minute' and I said, 'Linta, every minute I give it is a minute I'm not making the world a better place,' and she laughed so hard she knocked her coffee off the desk, and then she made me clean it up -- which I deserved, I'll admit. But the reason we were dicking around so much in the first place is because we were stuck, but then I realized that Howard had actually done some work that might be useful to my current project and --  _fuck_ , I do  _not_ want to work on his stuff again -- so I had to get out of there. And now I'm here." Tony takes a breath and grabs his beer. He drains it and reaches for Steve's untouched bottle, tilting it towards Steve in an imaginary  _cheers_  before taking a long pull. "Thanks for meeting me, by the way. You're my favourite distraction." His grin is back now, so smug and predatory that Steve blushes.

"I like being here too," he manages, avoiding Tony's eyes. He takes a deep breath and says, "I thought, uh -- thought it would be Rhodey."

Tony laughs. "Rhodey? Distracting? He's far too responsible for that, though he is hilarious if you get a couple of beers in him. On that note ..." Tony gets up and returns with another round.

"Why don't you want to work on How--your dad's research?" asks Steve when Tony is seated again.

Tony's face instantly goes dark. "Oh, fuck, I could write a book on that. You don't want to hear about my daddy problems. Typical rich kid shit."

"I do," says Steve. It's embarrassing how desperate he is to hear Tony talk about Howard.

"I'm not sure I want to tell you," says Tony. He drains one of the beers, cradles the other one in his palms.

It occurs distantly to Steve that he should maybe stop Tony from drinking the next one, but he starts talking and Steve is instantly captivated.

"I am not my father," says Tony, and it's like he's talking directly to Steve -- the real Steve, the one who grew up in the 40's, who knew Howard as a young man. "And everyone wants me to be. If I hear 'You should be more like Howard' or -- worse -- 'You're just like Howard' one more time, I'll sell S.I. to Hammer Corp. I'm doing stuff he could never do -- stuff he never even dreamed of -- and they want me working on his dead-end research from the 50's like that's worth something. Do you want to know how many research positions I applied for, only to have them bring me in and drool over Howard's unfinished research like that  _means_ something to me? Like if they thrust enough of his work at me I'll suddenly care? It's only gotten worse since I tanked the S.I. stocks, which I honestly wasn't expecting. 'Howard never would have done this.' Howard did a lot of shit no one thought he would, but no one bothers to ask me about  _that_."

"What do you mean?" asks Steve, and it barely comes out as more than a whisper.

Tony leans forward. He's not drunk but the alcohol is starting to make him soft around the edges. He has run his hands through his hair enough times that it's tilting wildly to the right, and his mouth is so red under the shitty pizza joint lighting. Something in Steve's stomach flutters to life, and he leans forward without realizing it.

Tony snaps back. "More beer."

He brings back another round, and shoves one at Steve.

Steve sets it on the table in front of him, watches a drop of condensation roll down onto the formica tabletop.

"Howard was a shitty fucking father," says Tony, half to himself, and the bitterness in his voice is scalding. "And a half-rate scientist. He had  _one_ fucking success, made  _one_ decent thing, and everyone loves him for it. You want to talk about the role he had in ending the war? When he couldn't recreate the supersoldier serum he got his hands dirty on the Manhattan Project. Weapons manufacturing is Howard's legacy: not me, and not Captain fucking America." Tony laughs suddenly, but the sound is sharp and cruel. "Why do you look so much like him?"

Steve stares back, horrified. He can feel his mouth gaping open, the flush from being so close to Tony draining out of his cheeks.

For a moment, they are both frozen, staring at each other, and then Tony drops his face into his hands. When he looks up again, his eyes are blank. "Sorry," he says, picking up one of the bottles, but not drinking.

"Don't be," says Steve.

"Yeah, sure," says Tony, and his free hands goes to his chest, tapping idly at the center.

Steve watches his long fingers play over the fabric of his shirt for a moment, and then Tony realizes what he's doing and drops both his hands flat to the table. "I think I should go," he says, and his voice is bright. There's a tight smile on his face, and then his gaze flicks back down. "I should -- shit, I didn't order you anything, I should -- I need to get out of here --" He stand up awkwardly, fumbling with his pockets, clutching at his phone.

Steve starts to say something -- "Okay" or "Sorry" -- but when he opens his mouth, he says, "Let's go then."

Tony looks surprised for a moment, but then he shrugs. He drops a tip on the table (for a moment Steve wonders if he meant to leave that many bills) and pauses at the door for a moment, waiting for Steve to follow.

The night is verging on cold, but it's not there yet. Steve slips his hands into his pockets and lets Tony lead them down the street.

"Why are you so interested in my dad anyway?" asks Tony, and his voice is guarded. "You one of those Howard groupies,  _Steve_?"

"What?" asks Steve dumbly.

"You are too innocent to be real, pal," says Tony, but it's almost a laugh. "Some people, the ones who are obsessed with Cap, just fucking love Howard. Since, you know, he created Captain America or whatever--"

"Howard didn't create him," cuts in Steve.

Tony gives him a sideways look, eyebrows raised. "No?"

"If anything, Erskine did," says Steve, and it comes out more defensive than he means it to.

"Erskine," says Tony slowly. "Yeah, the serum was Erskine's."

"Not just that," says Steve. "Erskine believed in him first."

Tony actually laughs this time. "Fuck, you are a Cap fan -- talking about his feelings and shit."

Steve shrugs and blushes.

"No, it's cute," says Tony, and his smile is dazzling in the early evening.

Steve blushes harder, but can't help grinning back.

"What else do you like, besides Captain America?" asks Tony.

Steve is silent for a moment, as they walk. "I like drawing."

"Mm, an artist," says Tony. "A bit of a stereotype, aren't you? With the coffee shop."

"Gotta eat somehow."

Tony nods and doesn't say anything else.

"What do you like?" says Steve. "All I know is that you hate simulators."

Tony laughs genuinely. "That's all you need to know about me."

"For real," says Steve.

Tony doesn't meet Steve's eyes as he says, "I like learning. I like building. I like robots and loud music."

Feeling bold from getting a straight answer for once, Steve asks, "How did you meet Rhodey?"

"That's a long story," says Tony, and he smiles softly. "We met in college, when we were both in our undergrad. He, uh -- saved my life, probably. More than once. He's my best friend. Well, him and Pepper."

"Pepper?"

"Oh, you haven't met her, have you? I think she's been to Varma's with me."

"The one with red hair?"

"Yeah, that's her. Perfect in every way. I owe her a lot, too. It seems like I always end up in debt to my friends."

Steve takes a deep breath and for a moment he's back on the train, Bucky's fingers slipping through his. "I know the feeling."

"What did you do?"

"I let them down."

"I can't imagine that.  _I_ trust you, and that's ... hard for me." Tony shrugs uncomfortably, to play it off as flippant, but it's clear he said more than he meant to. He pulls out his phone and drops his gaze to the screen.

Steve feels electric, like the cold air has sanded off the first few layers of his skin and every sensation is amplified. Just as he's about to say something stupid -- something like "This is the best night I've had since 1945" or "Come home with me" -- Tony looks up and, putting on that bright smile again, says, "Well, Steve, it's been a slice. Have a great night," and that damn limo is pulls up out of nowhere like it always does. Tony gives a sarcastic little salute and disappear into the car.

The evening ended as abruptly as it started. Steve sighs and starts walking in the direction of his apartment. He hasn't gone more than a few blocks when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a text from Tony.

_I did have a nice time._

Steve smiles so hard it hurts and hurries home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "A Flash of Light Followed By" by Chris Bathgate, off the album A Cork Tale Wake.


End file.
